Dealer Takes All
by Alexandrian
Summary: "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." Magnussen was just a busniess man but he knew exactly how to get to Sherlock. What might a man likes James Moriarty do with that same knowledge. And who inspired those words from Mycroft Holmes. What started his and Sherlocks intense sibling rivalry? Who had once melted the Icemans heart?
1. You've Shown Your Hand

~You've Shown Your Hand~

Currently Mrs. Hudson's words were repeating in his head over and over "It changes people, marriage". He hadn't thought it would change John, becoming a husband, and it hadn't. His becoming a father though had. His closest confidant was now somewhere at this very moment off changing nappies and wiping noses. When just mere months ago they had been running around together quipping back and forth while solving crimes.  
Much had happened in their lives since the day Sherlock was to be exiled and sent to what his brother Mycroft had assured him would be his certain death. That exile while brief, just the time it took for the plane to take off and turn promptly right back round, had been a rather sobering moment for the self proclaimed Consulting Detective. Though he should have been thinking of strategies on how to obtain what could be called a "stay of execution". He was more concerned about what would become of his companion and trusted friend ex-military man, Doctor John Hamish Watson.  
His concern for this man, his life, his wife, and their unborn child were the exact reason he found himself in this current situation. He had done everything he could to keep his vow that he had made to Mary and John on their wedding day. He had betrayed his own blood and shot a man in what appeared to be execution style for even entertaining the idea that he could harm Sherlock through hurting one of the very few people in this world he held dear.  
Sherlock would never be described as a sentimental man by those who had met him, and even less so by those who knew him. John was his "pressure point" as Magnussen had to easily himself deduced. He had gone after John physically by almost having the man publically burnt to death and then emotionally by going after his recently married to and pregnant wife, Mary.  
Mary, Sherlock had discovered, was not exactly the woman she was claiming to be. He knew very little about her factual history. She was obviously some sort of trained killer having shot Sherlock but only nearly killing him. She could have easily ended the detective's life the moment he happened upon her in Magnussen's office, but she hadn't. She was a crack shot too so it would have been easy at the short distance he had been standing from her.  
Her intent was never to kill him though, just to remove him from the scenario till she had time to think, time to convince him to not tell John who she was, what she was, the same reason she had gone to Magnussens office from the start. For all her lies Mary did not lie about her affection for John, Sherlock had seen that the moment he met her. He trusted Mary, even though she was one of the few people who had ever been able to lie to him without him seeing right through her. Something about that of course upset the flamboyant hotshot detective but he found himself also rather impressed.  
He may not know what she had done in her past, it could be more horrible then even he could imagine. He knew though that the woman she was now, Mary Watson, would be able to protect John. More so that she wanted to protect and care for John. It was a relaxing thought that even with Sherlock out of the picture John still had a sociopathic guardian angel looking after him.  
John was no child needing tending to though. The ex-military Doctor had been more then capable of taking care of himself and even Sherlock at times. After just knowing Sherlock a few days John had shot a man through a window from another building when he felt Sherlock was in danger. Their bond was immediate and strong. The small statured almost indiscreet Doctor was one of the most admirable men Sherlock had ever heard of and had the pleasure to not just know, but be true friends with.  
What did this all mean for Sherlock though? He was flying to what could have been his death and his only thoughts were of his friend. His brother Mycroft had always warned about becoming too familiar with others. "Alone keeps you safe" Mycroft's voice echoed through Sherlock's' brain. Sometimes though Sherlock wondered what Mycroft was really trying to tell him by using that word, you.  
Mycroft, like Sherlock, was not one for flowery language or sentimental remarks but something his older brother had said to him suddenly came to the forefront of his mind, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock" For the first time in a very long time, since the only funeral he had ever attended, besides his own of course, his mind drifedt back to Harris. That was the moment the phone rang, and he heard his brothers' voice, and not just in his head this time, telling him his greatest adversary somehow had also faked his own suicide, and that his face was currently being broadcasted on every single screen in Great Britain repeating the words over and over again "Did you miss me?" James Moriarty, the self proclaimed Consulting Criminal, was back. That meant if Moriarty was back Sherlock would have to be too. His greatest nemesis had saved him from exile.  
No one was safe now, not Molly Hooper, Lestrade, his parents, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Mary with her unborn child, and especially not John Watson himself. Sherlock had killed himself once to save them all before. His being cast out may have only lasted a handful of minutes but he had gleaned more about himself in those moments then he had cared for. Perhaps Mycroft had always been right. Alone keeps you (as well as everyone else) safe, and caring is not an advantage. He hated that Mycroft was always right. 


	2. Suit

~Suit~

As John found himself newly saddled with the burdens and responsibilities of parenthood Sherlock found himself alone in the flat they once shared at 221B Baker Street. He was staring at the wall, or perhaps more accurate a statement, he was staring through it. He had tried everything, falsified documents, made numerous unneeded appointments, scheduled clients himself; he even went as far as giving himself a black eye with the butt of his own hand gun. John had seen right through it all though. Well again more accurate of a statement would have been Mary saw right through him and told John so.  
Sherlock was in no way physically or mentally prepared for this evening. A significant amount of time had passed before he realized he had been sitting in the same chair with his hands under his chin. It had been at least a few hours, longer then it took for the afternoon to change to early evening. He moved, slowly at first and with a wince. If he had been in the presence of others he would have sprang from his seat and kept a stone face. However at this moment he was very much alone so he let himself feel. He could feel the hard tissue that had scarred over where Mary had shot him. He felt the rib that had been broken at the hands of the Siberian guard while his brother watched. He felt every physical blow his body had every endured and he let himself wince.  
He would have gone through each punch, fall, scrape, scratch, and bruise again if it meant he would be able to avoid this evenings festivities. He glanced out the window, could not have been later than 6:48 he thought, and looking at the clock on his phone confirmed, it was 6:46, he cursed under his breath quietly, "Damned two minutes." John would be there at 7:03 even though the event wasn't to start till 8. John had started showing up just under an hour early whenever they had anything planned that he knew Sherlock would try to figure a way out of. After giving himself a black eye John knew this evening would be no different. He had started to account for the time it would take for him to bicker back and forth with Sherlock about attending whatever it was and then the time it would take to get him ready since of course he would be in no way prepared for whatever the evening plans were.  
John arrived at 7:03 like Sherlock knew he would. Based on his easy friendship with this very difficult man John let himself in and was not at all surprised to see the taller man standing in the small kitchenette they had once shared still in his dressing gown. "You've been in that all day haven't you? You have not even showered yet." John could not mask his annoyance.  
"It is a fine evening to stay in don't you think John?" Sherlock smirked as he swiveled on the spot to face his best (and use to be only) friend.  
"I do not want to do this tonight Sherlock. Please just take a shower and put your clothes on."  
"You seem tired John. Perhaps a relaxing evening may do you some good. I was just e-mailed a case about an armless arms dealer supplying militant groups with some very interesting…"  
John cut him off, "Chasing down a group of highly armed, with who knows what, militants may seem the same as cozying up by the fire and reading Dickens on a cold night to you Sherlock. However tonight you don't get to read Dickens, you are going to come out with your friends and have a…"  
"How do you know I will have a nice evening John? The people, the noise, polite pointless conversation…" his tone changed, became higher pitched and mocking "How is the baby? Oh you mean she just laid there staring up at nothing making babbling noises, how wonderfully amazing. Oh Molly I see you have a new gentleman in your life hopefully this one won't be a psychopath or homosexual or the doppelganger of a certain consulting detective. Lestrade, see you're still bungling ever case you touch. Bless your heart though you try."  
John at this moment very much wanted to strike his best friend. He had before, on more than one occasion, he made everyone he knew feel that way at least some of the time. John knew though that whenever he would lash out at the people he cared for like this something else was really bothering him. "What's wrong?"  
Sherlock hadn't actually expected this simple question let alone the sincerity in which John had asked it. He felt regret then, regret that he was the way he was. He would have never admitted this out loud but sometimes when he was alone and not worried about the way he could or would be perceived he wished he was like the rest of them. Alone at night when no one could see Sherlock Holmes would sometimes wish that he could just be ordinary. Without speaking Sherlock started walking toward the bath. "Are you even working on any cases at this moment?" John asked. "I know Moriarty has been eerily quiet since he made his television debut…"  
Just the mention of the man's name irritated Sherlock. "It isn't just Moriarty who has been quiet. It seems like every low life in London is suddenly keeping their heads down and noses clean. Crime is at an all time low."  
"Well isn't that good news" John said knowing perfectly well for a man like Sherlock this was not good news. A man like Sherlock needed something to occupy him, to distract him and he had chosen crime solving as his. If there were no crimes being committed then no crimes were needed to be solved. Well of course crime was still going on. Just not the caliber of crime he would waste his talents and time on. He liked the queer cases. A good old fashioned straight forward who done it murder would even be a gift this close to Christmas. It did not appear though that he would get an early present this year.  
John took a seat in the chair he always occupied across from Sherlock when they were on a case. Sherlock had put up surprisingly little of a fight and was now showering as John waited. He had gone to such lengths to get out of this night and John couldn't pretend he was a little relieved that all it had taken was simply asking the man "What's wrong?" He may not have always understood or agreed with everything Sherlock had done and had put him through and heaven help him he knew that there was sure to be more absurdities as the years went on. But this strange man had taken him from an ordinary life and shown him just how extraordinary he himself was. Sherlock saw something in John Watson. When a man like Sherlock sees something in you, you almost believe for a second that you can be everything he wants you to be. Then it all comes down and the delusions fade away, because you can never be what he wants you to be, him.  
John saw it every time he mentioned Mary or the baby, the disappointment in Sherlock's eyes. Things as mundane as marriage and babies were trivial to Sherlock. He would never lower himself to such an ordinary existence. John however was in his own mind still just a man. He did not regret marrying his wife, or having his first child, a girl they named Margaret. He did not regret getting a little house for them in the suburbs and keeping on at his practice even after Sherlock had come back. He did not regret for one second not dropping everything to go on adventures and solve crimes with Sherlock Holmes. He was his best friend still yes, and when he could and was able to assist him with cases he would. John needed the excitement sometimes just as much as Sherlock did. He just could never regret any of his life with Mary, even the bad moments which for people like them were more than just we had a row about the bills. His wife after all had fabricated her whole past and shot his best friend.  
No, John Watson had no personal regrets. He did regret though that Sherlock would go through his entire life without his Mary. That it was ludicrous to ever even hope he would have his own Margaret some day. He regretted that things like that were too trivial for men like Sherlock. John knew though that it was bigger and even more general than that. He regretted that Sherlock would not simply let himself feel.  
Now John found himself lost in thought and time. Sherlock had emerged from his room clean, shaven, dressed and ready to leave. He even had his coat on before John looked up. He had been staring at the empty seat across from him, Sherlock's chair that had been empty for two years. That empty chair and the void it represented when Sherlock had faked his own suicide were the exact reason he hadn't been able to stay at their flat after he was gone. For a time after John was married Sherlock had moved the chair that John occupied out of the shared living area. He had moved it back when he needed to. When it mattered. John was sure it was more than that though. Sometimes your actions or inactions betray you, moving the chair had betrayed Sherlock. A sad sweet smile greeted Sherlock's face when John did finally look up.  
What had John just been thinking about and why did it evoke such a facial expression? Whatever the reason Sherlock found himself put off by it. He stood above John in black slim lower waist line trousers, a white shirt dress, black vest, a black evening tailcoat, and black bowtie. His smoky, dark, grey, long Belstaff Milford coat was on signaling that he was ready to go. John noticed that his now trademark jewel toned blue scarf was stuffed into the pocket.  
"It is a masquerade where is your mask?" John asked.  
"Where is yours?" he snorted back.  
"With Mary, she is meeting us there. We are already late." It was later then John had hoped for, but he did get Sherlock ready and even out of the house before 8 this evening so he decided to count it as a success. "We only have the sitter till 12. So think of that will you, no matter what we will only be there 4 hours at the most." John thought about the idea of getting a sitter for Sherlock, and then he wondered if Sherlock Holmes parents had ever had need for one. How would a little Sherlock have treated a sitter?  
"Do you know how many much more productive and helpful things any of us could do in four hours? It is in my coat."  
"Sherlock it is helpful, it is a charity event"  
"That I am being forced to attend so that my current notoriety can be exploited to draw more money out of the fame obsessed populous."  
"You are the bloody guest of honor!"  
"Funny then how I do not find any of this honorable" They made their way down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson's door was slightly ajar. "Mrs. Hudson?!" Sherlock called. A moment later his landlady emerged in a lovely deep purple gown. In her hand was a matching Venetian style mask. He gave her a wide smile. The elderly woman's eyes sparkled at the young men.  
"Don't you two look just lovely?" John was also dressed for the occasion in a deep burgundy velvet blazer, black shirt and trousers and a matching burgundy velvet bow tie.  
"As do you Mrs. Hudson" John genuinely meant it too. She was like a mother to Sherlock and himself. She raised the mask to her face and gave the men a slight courtesy. They respectfully and deeply bowed back to her as they stood side by side in the hallway at 221.  
Sherlock held his arm out and she took it. "I will be the envy of every man this evening when they seem me accompanied by such a beauty." Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and giggled, "Oh stop it now Sherlock, where is your masks? It is a masquerade isn't it? Oh no have I gotten it mixed up, should I leave the mask behind dears?"  
They both assured her they would also be wearing masks so she did not have to feel foolish. Sherlock placed his arm across his chest and placed his hand over Mrs. Hudson's as he escorted her outside. John's face had fallen back into the same smile from before, perhaps when Sherlock doesn't think people are looking he does let himself feel. This thought seemed to comfort John. The three of them walked out into the crisp evening air.


	3. Queen Of Hearts

~Queen Of Hearts~

Mary had been standing outside for only a few minutes now. She had assumed Sherlock would drag his feet so she had arrived late herself. She was wearing a deep red wine coloured dress that matched John's burgundy bowtie and jacket. The mask she chose for the evening was small but gold embellishments gave it an understated elegance against the black material that covered only her eyes. A single red feather came from the left hand side of the mask close to her temple and swirled past her head giving her an extra inch of height or so.  
She was holding Johns mask in her hand. She had chosen it for him. When John had first seen it next to hers he thought it rather plain. It was black with just a few swirls of gold originating on the right hand side. Mary didn't think it plain. She thought it was quietly reserved but still strong and impactful, just like her husband.  
When the three had arrived by taxi she was there waiting for them. Sherlock was the first to step out, he looked tall and as handsome as ever she noted. She was not surprised to see him then gently turn and hold his hand out for Mrs. Hudson. He helped her out of the car like the gentleman he actually was. John came out the other side and around the car. The moment Mary saw him she smiled, she had seen him in his suit before he had left their home but she had not fully appreciated it till just now. John met her eyes and stopped for a moment. She saw this, "Something wrong?"  
Her husband looked very serious and thoughtful then said "No, no, it is just… just when I think there is no way she can be more beautiful, there you are, more beautiful than the day I met you, more beautiful than the day I married you, and now still even more beautiful then yesterday. I just do not know how that can be Mrs. Watson" Mary had married a good man, and she knew she didn't deserve him.  
He took his mask and placed it on. "Sherlock you too" John sternly told him.  
Sherlock took it out of his pocket and rubbed a gloved finger around the brim of the simple black domino mask and contemplated. "Come on now, this is the first night John and I have had out together since Margaret was born. You are not going to spoil this Sherlock Holmes. Put it on so we can make our fashionably late entrance." Mary was already starting to walk towards the doors as she spoke. With a grunt of indignation he finally placed his mask on. "It all just seems silly and useless. Gambling, dressing up, wearing masks…"  
"It is in honor of you, the masks give everything an air of mystery. You love a good mystery, tonight there will be hundreds of people all hiding behind masks and costumes, all of them a puzzle for you to solve and this time you can't just look at their clothes and faces to guess…"  
"I never guess. Even a costume can be a portrait of oneself…" Sherlock cut Mary off.  
"There will be dancing." Mary could swear she saw his eyes light up at that.  
"If he musters up the courage to ask anyone" Mrs. Hudson laughed a little after saying this. This did not amuse Sherlock however.  
"Sherlock Holmes the great detective. Brave enough to face criminal masterminds, take a bullet, die and come back from the dead but dare him to ask a girl for a dance and look at him he goes as white as a ghost." John could never resist having a little fun at Sherlock's expense.  
"The woman you will be dancing with this evening is the very one who shot that bullet I took. So forgive me if perhaps I am weary of matters of the heart. It can cloud your judgment…" now John cut him off. "We know you ruddy robot, now come on we are as late as could be still acceptable."  
John walked ahead of them; Mary was at Sherlock's side now "I'll dance with you. John is an awful dancer no matter how much you tried to teach him" she whispered as they shared a smile. All had and was forgiven between them. The two would make comments behind Johns back to make the other smile or laugh. John would on occasion catch something one of them would say and they would get his best disapproving dad look which would just make them laugh more. "There really won't be hundreds of people here do you think?" he asked her and Mary could swear she heard panic in his voice. "You will be fine, just stay with John and I."  
Though he scorned all ideas of romance he understood the mechanics of it all. He understood how people were supposed to be and act even if he himself did not practice any of these rituals or customs. Mary and John wouldn't want him hanging about them all evening. He knew Mrs. Hudson would start with one glass of wine that would turn into three well before even she realized. Lestrade and Molly Hooper were actually overseeing the whole event. They were there to raise money for the police and St. Barts Hospital. Sherlock brought the two causes together being a consulting detective and his involvement and learning at St. Barts.  
It was an idea Molly had come up with after working so closely all these years with Sherlock and Lestrade. They were raising money for all different kinds of research and new equipment for the police force. Sherlock had not really paid all that much attention to what this was all for. He was there because Molly had asked, and Molly had done so much for him. She thought having him there that his name would draw more people in. She wasn't wrong. The hall was large enough to fit five hundred people Sherlock knew without even needing to see the maximum occupancy sign that was usually found along the wall somewhere. He figured they would reach that limit soon enough. There were already close to 400 people in attendance and it was just the beginning of the evening.  
They had saved him the embarrassment of an announced entrance. Still everyone turned when he walked in. They were all shooting glances toward the doors waiting for the moment he would appear. Luckily he was such a domineering figure that people did not all rush to him right away. He was able to cross the dance floor uninterrupted to the other side where he would greet the few people he actually did know and could tolerate. They would all keep their distance for now. He knew though that as the evening wore on and more drinks were poured their unease with him would diminish, alcohol lowered inhibitions and IQ's. These people he already dismissed for being unintelligent where just going to get stupider as the night wore on.  
Tonight was not the evening for this. He was already agitated and something was making him uneasy. No uneasy wasn't the word, he was excited, and a little nervous. Not for the inane prattle he was bound to have to sit quietly through. Such a large event like this focused on him was going to be hard for a man like James Moriarty to miss. He did have a flair for the dramatic and this evening with everyone in costume, the dimly lit hall, the crowd, music, and all of their eyes on him he was sure that Moriarty would finally make an appearance. Moriarty would let him down on this night at least. Though something was about to happen that would make up for it and Sherlock for once, was completely unaware.  
Two excruciating hours had passed. He knew that he should let Mary and John have some time together to enjoy their evening out, but he also knew they would not turn him away. So he stayed close to them and would feign interest in whatever the pair was saying or doing if he saw someone coming towards them with intentions of trying to chat him up. He gave no sign of how uncomfortable he felt as women stared at him with lust filled eyes or as men glared with a mix of jealousy and admiration and even a few of them seemed to have lust in their eyes as well.  
Games were set up around the dance floor. Just the typical casino games roulette, blackjack, poker, etc… Currently Mary and John were trying their hand at the blackjack table. Everyone was betting liberally, John would say this was because it was for a good cause. Sherlock knew though it was due more to the flowing alcohol then the size of their hearts. He stood behind them, the dealer flipped a card. The cards in Johns hand's only totaled 12, the 7 of Diamonds and 5 of Clubs. The next card was a King of Diamonds, "22, player Bust"  
"Well better luck the next round" Mary said off handedly rubbing her husband's back and with a glazed expression in her eyes. She really shouldn't have been drinking with a baby at home but she decided to sneak a few sips. It had been so long since she had been in the company of other adults and she was enjoying herself. John would stay the sober one this evening and take care of their daughter when they were back at home. She was allowing herself this night. For a woman who had been a trained assassin she was surprised how easily she had acclimated to civilian life and all its trappings.  
While the two shared a moment forgetting Sherlock was there and turning back to the table to try their chance again a woman had silently come to stand next to Sherlock.  
He heard her before he saw her which was strange unto itself for the man who noticed everything. "Your companion is going to win the next hand with the Queen of Hearts and the Ace of Spades." Her accent sounded slightly Irish and educated. Sherlock hadn't been keeping count of the cards he had no reason to. He glanced around the table. He didn't have enough information to make an informed deduction though, he would have needed to know what had already been played and how far into the deck they had gone. Without looking to his left where the stranger stood he said "With just the first two cards he is dealt?"  
"Yes." He could hear in her voice that she was sure. Not just sure, to her it was just fact.  
John was indeed dealt those two exact cards as the woman had said he would be. Sherlock thought that intriguing enough to at least turn toward her. What else had he heard in that voice though? She was bored. This woman was extremely bored.  
She was gone now. Just as silently as she had come she left. He scanned the room; it was far too large a space with just as many people he wouldn't be able to spot her right away. He would try though. He thought maybe if he got higher though he could see more. Perhaps she was still walking away, would he be able to tell who she was without ever having looked at her?  
He grabbed the closest chair and stood on the seat. It made him a few feet taller than the rest of the crowd. Others had taken notice though and now he heard John telling him to get down. When Sherlock ignored him John pulled him down. "When you do things like that it gets people worried" John informed him, "So how about you tell me, should they be worried?"  
"No… maybe" he said still distracted still searching. "There was a woman…"  
"A woman? The Woman?" John was as confused as he was shocked. "Did you ask her to dance?" he joked.  
"No not her, another woman… Queen of Hearts."  
That got John's eyebrows to rise. "The Queen of Hearts?"  
Before John could question or mock him further Sherlock had already started to walk away from him. It may not be as good of a puzzle that he was use to but he was determined to find that woman by the end of the evening. He could tell from her voice she was between the ages of 25 and 39 which eliminated much less then he had hoped. Many women had shown up this night to get a good look at the handsome detective.  
For a man who had so dreaded even the idea that a stranger may try to speak with him this night he was now talking to every strange woman in the room that could have been her. Mary and John watched confused and somewhat concerned. Though they couldn't figure out for whom to be concerned for, Sherlock or the unsuspecting woman he would start to chat up and then just as abruptly walk away from.  
"How are you this fine evening?" he would ask and after just a few syllables were allowed to escape their mouths he would walk away. Leaving some of them standing there blushing not believing that he had spoken to them and ignoring the fact that he was asking a question and then not sticking around long enough to get the answer.  
He was getting more frustrated as time went on. Some women he just grabbed by their shoulders gave them a once over and moved on. He became aware of the time, it was 11:30 almost and he did not want to be there one second longer then he knew he had to be. He stopped in the middle of the dance floor to regroup. He closed his eyes and gathered himself, what did he know what didn't he know? She was a young clever bored woman. His eyes shot open. There were ornate glass doors in the back of the hall that led off to a garden. People could wander in and out for fresh air. It was the simplest answer so of course he had over looked it.  
The moment he walked beyond the doors he felt better. Mostly everyone was inside now drunk, dancing, or gambling. He wished he could have spent his evening out here in the cold instead of the warm crowded hall but John would never have allowed it. There were a few paths but he knew to go to the farthest deepest one where no one else could see.  
There she was. He first only saw her from behind. She was in deep emerald. The dress was Victorian with black lace accents, and her hair was a chestnut brown styled up. Then he noticed the tendril of gray smoke rising into the air. She was out there smoking even though there were signs all around that it was prohibited even out here in the garden. She was bored, clever, Irish, and a smoker.  
"Are you illiterate or just have a disregard for the law?" He asked as he approached her. To his surprise she did not even flinch at the sound of his voice or turn. "I only regard the law when it is of importance. You and I both know how rare it is when that is actually the case though Mr. Holmes." Her mask was off and before he could approach her she was placing it back on.  
She turned to face him then. He was genuinely surprised and even a little unnerved to see the style of mask she had on this evening. A plague mask, it covered almost all her face and where he should be able to see her eyes he could only see more black. A fine mesh was stretched over the holes. She could see out but you couldn't see in.  
She offered him a cigarette from a gloved hand. Her dress and even the garments she wore under them all adhered to one period. The gloves though were modern well worn leather. They were a deeper colour then John's blazer from this evening. He took it and kept his eyes fixed on where hers were supposed to be. He could read nothing else about this woman from her appearance. She had made an effort to make sure that he couldn't glean anything to personal about her. That within itself gave him some information though. Even her tone was flat. "So you found me. Took you much longer than I expected it would. Then again it seems obvious I would come out here. Did you over think it?"  
He had over thought it. Had she been out here waiting for him this entire time? If she was cold she did not look it. She had had a black wrap but it couldn't have been doing much for her. Without realizing it he was already taking off his coat to offer her. "No thank you Mr. Holmes that is quiet alright. Thank you though for being a gentleman. Your reputation has not preceded you"  
"Gossip and rumors are always preferable to the truth Miss?" he asked.  
"Tonight? Tonight you can call me Envy." Her voice sounded playful there.  
"So Envy, though that is not your real name. Come to test me, see if I am as good as they say?"  
"I know you are as good as they say. I wonder if you are as good as you think you are though."  
"I sometimes still even surprise myself" he retorted.  
"Does anything really surprise you anymore Mr. Holmes?"  
"Sherlock, it is Sherlock."  
"Not tonight it isn't" she smiled. He sensed danger now. This woman was much cleverer than he had been able to pick up on at first. She was reading a script that he did not know the lines to, but she knew them all.  
"Then what is my name?"  
"Mr. Holmes"  
"Did Moriarty send you?"  
She laughed a genuine full hearty laugh. "If you think James Moriarty is the only danger out there to you and your little group of friends you are going to be sadly and very mistaken." She had chosen her words carefully.  
"Are you that danger then?"  
"No. Well I would say no, others may say yes. Even I do not know yet myself."  
"What should I take that to mean then?"  
"Whatever your little brain cares to imagine. That is not the point of all this. Now you are here to ask me a question. You should ask before it is too late, it is after all almost midnight." He could not see her smiling. The beak of the bird like mask covered all but her chin and the top of her forehead. Lingering there he could tell she was also wearing a wig. Her voice was muffled. She had not been wearing the mask when she had first approached him in the hall. If he had just bothered to glance over…  
"Do you turn back into a pumpkin or a pauper at midnight?" he felt at ease with this woman which then made him feel uneasy.  
'Neither but everything will have changed by then." If he had been able to see her mouth he could have seen her smile turn down to a frown. He did hear something in her voice; it was beyond sadness, regret. She did not want whatever was about to happen to actually happen. This particular woman knew though that sometimes unpleasant things were unavoidable. She had been avoiding this for years now and part of her was relieved that it finally was about to all start coming together. Staying away from him for this long had hurt her. She had not expected it to.  
He did not know exactly what he was meant to ask. So he asked the only question he could think of. "Would you care to dance?"  
"Yes Mr. Holmes. I expect we would both like that very much."  
He presented his arm like he had with Mrs. Hudson and she took it. Something made him feel wrong. Like the sense of danger a child gets only after they have taken candy from the stranger, and by then it's already too late. It was already too late; he had asked a woman to dance. He thought then that he might have asked the wrong one too.  
They walked back in and through the crowd with arms still interlocked and straight to the dance floor. He turned to her but she did not immediately turn herself. Her head moved side to side looking, she was waiting for something. The song currently playing was now fading; perhaps she was waiting for the next to play. Silence for a moment and then the strum of a somber guitar began. She turned and took his bare hand in her gloved and placed his other upon her hip. She laid her other hand on his shoulder. The song began and so did they. Somehow just sensing the movements the other was about to make and allowing for it.

I was five and he was six  
We rode on horses made of sticks  
He wore black and I wore white  
He would always win the fight

Nancy Sinatra sang through the audio system.

Bang bang, he shot me down  
Bang bang, I hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, my baby shot me down.

She had chosen this particular song for this particular moment. She saw his eyes darting back and forth. He was thinking, trying to find some connection to the music. Maybe some meaning in the words, a code?

Seasons came and changed the time  
When I grew up, I called him mine  
He would always laugh and say  
"Remember when we used to play?"

By now others had taken notice that the evenings honored guest was dancing silently and effortlessly with an unknown and bizarrely masked woman. "John?" Mary said perplexed. He had his back to the dance floor and began to turn following Mary's pointed finger. It wasn't Irene Adler alias The Woman; John could see that from their height difference. This woman was shorter and she looked longer legged. He had to admit though Sherlock was an excellent dancer, and he seemed to have found himself an equal. They moved in tight circles around the floor and every so often he would lift her slightly from the ground by the hips while they turned. John didn't know exactly what this dance would have been called, a type of waltz he assumed.  
The song was putting off most of the crowd they seemed to not know exactly what movements to make to the melancholy tempo. The other couples were giving them a wider berth and they were taking advantage of it. The lifts were higher and they were reaching their arms longer out with hands cupped. Sherlock was always a commanding figure but to see all that intensity turned into a beautiful focused dance was a sight. Maybe it was the distance or the alcohol she had enjoyed but Mary could swear Sherlock was enjoying himself too, genuinely enjoying himself. The song was odd though she thought.

Bang bang, I shot you down  
Bang bang, you hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, I used to shoot you down.

The back of the hair on John's neck began to stand on end. Something about the song and the woman made him weary. He was fighting the urge to run over and separate the two. Sherlock wasn't someone who needed protecting usually. He could have over taken most of the men in the room and not just with physicality and brute force. Sherlock fought smart. This woman, for some reason John was sure, fought dirty.  
"You've done this dance before?" The right side of Sherlock's mouth turned up and so did his eyebrow.  
"Yes we have" she stated.  
"We?" he asked. His mind was racing threatening to take him out of the moment. He was trying to focus on everything trying to find the meanings and connections hidden under it all. Envy, to be envious he thought. She was wearing green, green with envy. Prideful came to mind, pride comes before a fall. He had fallen, off a building, or he had made it to look so. Sins no… this was all too broad. "Narrow it down" Mycroft's voice always whispering in his head challenging him.

Music played, and people sang  
Just for me, the church bells rang.

Now he's gone, I don't know why  
And till this day, sometimes I cry  
He didn't even say goodbye  
He didn't take the time to lie.

The song was winding down. Sherlock had enjoyed dancing with her. He was still no closer to figuring out who this stranger might be when he started to dip her. She took her right hand from his and cupped his face before the pair gracefully settled into a back bending bow. He almost dropped her. John could see from across the room the slightest change in Sherlock's demeanor. She was wearing perfume just a few small sprits on her neck and wrists. He had smelled it before but had not let himself properly process it.  
She smelled warm, a mix sandalwood and vanilla. His body grew cold before his mind could make the connection. A scent he had chosen for her. He called his brain his Mind Palace. There were rooms, many rooms in his palace. Some were locked and some were not. The room he kept her in, memories of her, was a locked one. That door had just burst open.  
She saw this in his eyes and felt it in the slight shiver that had gone through his body. She had placed her hand on his chest now and could even feel the moment where his heartbeat faltered. Luckily he had not dropped her. She was smiling under that mask, much larger now, to large. It was a crocodile's smile, to many teeth. That is when she finally did bite. "A boy only buys perfume for a girl he fancies" she whispered, her Irish accent now gone as they came back into a standing position. He was holding her wrist tight now. She wiggled free and stepped away from him. He went to step toward her but found he could not. She was using her normal accent now, she sounded much like him.  
"It is useless. You are about to fall. Try not to choke on your tongue. I suggest falling on your side if you can. Don't worry it is just a toxin that immobilizes you for a few hours. It will wear off. There is also a chance though you may have a very bad reaction to it. I am sure your dear one Dr. Watson will attend to you. I am glad we got to dance together again." His eyes were darting back and forth the only part of him he could still move pleading for someone to notice. Someone had, John was starting to make his way toward them.  
She followed his eyes. "Someone is always interrupting us. Before I go though Sherlock…" she had not said his name till now and he knew why. If she had said it he would have known it was her. "I just have to ask, did you miss me?"  
He couldn't answer and she knew it. She turned then and was briskly walking away into the crowd of hundreds. John was unable to reach him before he fell. The last thing he heard was John screaming his name, and the last thing he saw was everyone stopping to turn and watch as he fell.

Bang bang, he shot me down  
Bang bang, I hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, my baby shot me down...


	4. A New Player

~A New Player~

Sherlock had woken up in his own bed on more the one occasion with no memory of how he had gotten there. On such occasions he would usually wake with a start and call out to John. This time he laid there for a long moment thinking. John might not be there, he did have his own home with a wife and child there waiting. He heard movement outside his door though and knew he was there. Still he lay quietly. He would have thought the evening before was just a dream if not for the condition he currently found himself in. The after effects of whatever she had managed to poison him with made his body ache and his mind hazy. How had she poisoned him? He tried to remember feeling perhaps a pinch while they danced, some sort of injection. He moved slowly feeling and examining his body for where there may have been an entry site. He felt none. The sounds outside his door stopped. John was listening for any signs of movement from Sherlock. He had monitored him through the night after sending his slightly intoxicated wife home in a taxi. It had taken a phone call and the promise of double pay to convince the sitter to stay past midnight till either John could come home or Mary was no longer inebriated. He had checked on him only a half hour ago, his breathing was normal and pulse fine but he was still worried for his friend. Who had that woman been? Why did she make John so uneasy? He was waiting for him to wake up, to ask Sherlock about her. Sherlock knew this, and despite knowing its inevitability he was stalling. What could he think to say about her? He had not let himself think about her for so long. He closed his eyes again. He pictured a long corridor, far removed from all the others corners of his mind. It was dark but he could see a door ajar at the end, light was spilling out from it. He was walking cautiously past other locked doors. A warm breeze blew past his face from the open room. He could smell the slight sweet scent of flowers in a meadow of sun warmed grass, biscuits, vanilla, sweat, and musty library books. He reached for the handle and then simply closed the door. He could not bring himself to go in there, to remember her. He thought the smell would make his head swim and the light coming from that room would blind him. So he turned his back and walked away. "John?" he croaked finally, and there he was instantly. "How are you feeling?" John asked. "Rather like I've been drugged" Sherlock stated dryly. John was taking Sherlock's pulse again. It was steady even if Sherlock himself was not. He tried to get up but found his limbs to be very heavy and threw him off balance. He fell back onto the bed. "Did you know that woman? Did Moriarty send her?" John finally asked. "No, Moriarty did not send her" Sherlock answered quickly completely avoiding the first question. John took notice of this but decided not to address it further at the moment. Sherlock was still weak and John trusted that he would tell him whenever he needed to know. Sherlock managed to roll over to his side facing away from John. John took that as a cue that he wanted to be alone. With no other words he exited the room. He left a few hours later after he was certain Sherlock was fine and that Mrs. Hudson would be there if he needed anything. Some time had passed since the incident at the gala and Sherlock had not offered any more information about who that mysterious woman had been. It was only a few days till Christmas now and John had noticed that Sherlock was more distracted and irritable then was usual even for him. The two had just finished a case that John would later refer to in his blog as "The Wasp" when they were walking up the stairwell to the flat at 221B that they had once shared when Sherlock froze in front of him. John had not been looking up and flattened his nose against Sherlock's back. "What the hell…" John trailed off. "Shut up" Sherlock was tense. He turned to face John who had moved back a step. John was surprised by the expression that he saw on Sherlock's face, indecision. Sherlock didn't know whether he should retreat or move forward. He seemed frozen on the stairs for a moment. Then in another moment that expression was replaced with resolve. He walked up the last few steps and John watched as he placed his hand on the knob and hesitated for just a moment before letting out a deep breath and opening the door. John couldn't see past the much taller Detective but he could sense something before he even entered the room. Someone unfamiliar was there. Then John had a specific and peculiar thought. Someone unfamiliar to him was there but not unfamiliar to Sherlock. John stepped around to see who was in the front room. Judging by the back of this persons head and silhouette it was a woman with her back turned to them looking out the front window. It was her. For the past few weeks Sherlock had almost been able to convince himself that it couldn't have been real. They couldn't have danced together that night because she was dead. She had been dead for some time, over a decade. He had been dead for two years though and knew that it wasn't necessarily a permanent state. It was the first time he had ever found himself wishing that he could believe in ghosts. For a panicked second he dreaded her turning and meeting his eyes. He was worried about what his would give away and what hers would say. As if she was reading his mind she finally did turn. John felt the weight of the moment and kept silent. Sherlock's eyes were the bright colours of a field of wheat on a beautiful clear day, gold, green, and brilliant blue. Hers were the colour of the sea at night during a violent storm, dark green, black, and gray. She had hidden those eyes behind a mask. She had even had to wear a wig. Her pin straight hair fell to her chin in a curtain now. He recognized the distinct ginger and honey coloured hues. He had spent a week after her death just trying to remember the colour of each strand. Then he spent the next week trying to remember the shape of her eyes, her nose, and her chin. The week after that he moved on to her voice, then her hands, the way she moved, even her laugh. He had spent months obsessively trying to remember who she was and what she had looked liked before, before he and Mycroft had killed her. John was giving her a glance over. Her skin was paler than Sherlock and she had a speckling of freckles on her cheeks right under her eyes which made her appear younger then she was. Her cheekbones, John was quick to notice, gave even Sherlock's a run for his money. Her face was heart shaped but gaunt giving her pointed features. There was a deep scar interrupting her upper lip on the left hand side. She looked just as alien as the man she was standing across from. She was shorter then John so in comparison she was much shorter then Sherlock himself. She had a slender frame but he could tell by the way she carried herself she was athletic. Even under her simple light gray trousers, white undershirt, and matching fitted blazer and vest he could tell she was muscular. She was wearing deep burgundy coloured gloves and John noticed a dark emerald green cloak slung over the chair he normally occupied. She ignored John completely at first never averting her eyes from Sherlock. When she realized he would not be the first to speak she did. "Dr. Watson is it?" she said turning her gaze to him finally. "Yeah, um… yes" John said a bit unsure looking between Sherlock and this stranger. He was growing slightly concerned by Sherlock's silence. "I am Sarah Harris, a long ago acquaintance of Mr. Holmes." The two looked back at him but Sherlock was still standing there just staring through her thinking, processing. "Acquaintance? Sherlock has acquaintances?" John had never met anyone from Sherlock's past or personal life aside from his family which just consisted of his older brother Mycroft and his parents. "Aye, he did" Aye… Aye… Aye… that word echoed through Sherlock's head and brought him back from his memories. Sarah was looking directly into Johns eyes now. That is when John realized that he had been stepping back from her absent mindlessly. He felt safer with his back against the far wall with her completely in his sight. There was something about this woman that made you not want to look directly at her. Once your eyes locked onto hers it was as if you were caught in a trap. Sherlock had known those eyes through childhood, adolescents, and young adulthood. He had seen them fill with excitement, knowledge, and joy; he had even seen them frightened and in pain. He was unable to see her aside from that ideal now. If he had, he could have told John why she made him nervous. He had come to think of her eyes as stormy green oceans but they weren't. They were the colours of snake skin, a dark green gray with black flecks; the colour of a snake hiding in the grass waiting to strike. "Yes John an acquaintance." Sherlock had finally found his voice but had lost some of his nerve, "Sarah Harris, dead for, oh how long has it been Harris?" He knew how long. He knew how long to the year, month, day, hour, minute, the second, and so did she. "How many people do you know who have died and come back to life now Sherlock?" John felt the need to defend him again rising. "Including myself, now Ms. Harris here, James Moriarty and…" he paused before the last name "and The Woman, Irene Adler. That would make four of us John" "So three people cleverer then you Sherlock?" Sarah asked not fazed by Sherlock's hesitation on the last name listed. "Three people who fooled you." Sherlock smiled wide, John knew that smile. He knew Sherlock was very, very, angry. If this strange woman was aware of his anger she gave no notice. "John, I am sure Mary and Margaret are waiting for you at home." John was genuinely confused for a second. Had Sherlock just dismissed him to be left alone with this woman? He turned to him, "Till tomorrow John?" he asked sounding somewhat annoyed that he was still there. "A word Sherlock? In the other room" John had already seized his arm and was pushing him down the hall toward the back bedroom. Sherlock kept glancing back behind them almost as if he was checking that she was still there. Once the pair were behind Sherlock's closed bedroom door Sherlock turned to him now obviously annoyed. "Who the hell is that bloody woman?" "She did not lie John. Her name is Sarah Harris and she is an old acquaintance of mine" John's eyes bulged at this. "That is a whole lot of information you're giving me Sherlock. Who is she to you?" "I have known her since childhood. She died or so I was tricked into believing. I know just as much as you do at the moment John" He really knew nothing at all though. He often found himself wondering and guessing about Sherlock's formative years. He found it hard to even try and picture him as anything other then what he was now, the cocky, clever, quick witted detective. But in that other room was a woman who did know the younger Sherlock. What must she think of him in comparison now? "Fine Sherlock I will go. If you swear to me right now that you are not in danger". Sherlock didn't know if he was or not. "I am in no danger John." The two emerged from the room. Sherlock searched for her immediately but she had not left. She was still standing by the window, looking out again now. "It was nice to meet you Dr. Watson" she said without turning. John hesitated at the door before Sherlock gave him a slight nudge out. John was feeling anxious. He went home to his wife and daughter who both greeted him with easy smiles. At least two of the three most important people in his life were safe where he could see them.


	5. The Board

~The Board~

"I imagine you have questions." She walked to John's chair and took a seat. Crossing her legs she placed her hands on her knee. "Why?" he found himself asking. John had asked Sherlock the same question after he had faked his own suicide. Sherlock had assumed he was asking why, as in what was the reason for such a dramatic ruse? He had not been asking that. He was asking why he would pretend to kill himself and not ease Johns mind by letting him in on the secret. Why did he not trust John? Sherlock had not understood John's point of view till this very second. He took his seat across from her folded his legs pressed his finger tips together and placed his hands under his chin waiting. "Why? Sherlock… you know why. Between yourself and Mycroft I am sure the two of you have thought of more than a million reasons why." She paused and then asked "Have you spoken to Mycroft? Did you tell him that you saw me, that I came to you?" He had not. He took a slight pleasure in knowing that she had not gone to his brother. She had come to him first. "Smug. Your expression changed. I wouldn't be smug Sherlock. I actually went to you first because I knew it would be easier. Mycroft will have more than questions. He will have demands." She was lying, this was harder. She hadn't gone to Mycroft first because he didn't matter as much. "No. Is that why you, well you didn't die obviously, so is that why you left? You were upset by Mycroft's demand?" saying the word demand with a mocking tone. "He asked me a question Sherlock, he did not demand me. I was and still am my own person. That wouldn't have changed if I had said yes and we had gone through with an engage…" "Engagement." He finished with her. "He proposed Sherlock. He proposed and it still isn't good enough for you that I always said no. That I knew how it would make you…" she wanted to finish the sentence with the word feel. She knew that would upset him, saying out loud that he felt something more than a kinship for her. "That I knew it would displease you. It would have changed everything and neither of us Sherlock, neither of us wanted that." That would be the closest either of them came that night to saying how they truly felt. "Years Harris. Why now? Why are you here now?" She had wanted to tell him the truth, you weren't ready before, but now you are, even if she herself did not feel prepared. "Because I can be. Is there no part of you that is pleased to see me again? Pleased to know that I am alive, breathing, talking, walking…" Without me Sherlock caught himself thinking. There it was, the reason he was not particularly pleased with seeing her face again, hearing her voice, smelling her. On the stairs that moment that John had seen, that indecision, wasn't that at all. It was restraint. Her perfume had greeted him a few steps down but he had assumed it was just a memory. The past few weeks he would often smell her perfume or hear echoes of her laughter in the quiet moments when he was alone and his guard was down. He had smelled her though and knew she was just beyond that door. He had wanted to run to her, grab her by her shoulders and just stare at her for hours re-learning her and all he could of who she was now. He was not a sentimental man however. He hadn't always been a man though; he had been a boy once. In his boyhood he had met this girl. In their childhood he and she had been inseparable. Being young and naïve is not a perpetual state. They both did eventually, if a little unwillingly, grow up. It can change people and relationships when you see them though the eyes of experience. It had changed them , growing older. It had changed the way the viewed one another. It had also changed the way Mycroft had viewed his annoying younger brother and his almost equally obnoxious companion too. Sherlock always called her Harris preferring her masculine last name to her feminine first name. Mycroft had addressed her as Harris until suddenly one day as they were leaving their teen years behind he started calling her Sarah. It had bothered Sherlock the familiarity he had with her. He had met her first after all and they were closer in age then she and Mycroft. However now that they were growing older he noticed the two of them spending more time together apart from him. Then came the day Mycroft first proposed which led into the night that she had crawled through his open window and into his boy hood bed. When they had been younger she would sneak in on an almost nightly basis. She would slip out of her home bike to Sherlock's, hide her bike in a set of bushes near the end of their property, and climb the tree outside his room. She did all this silently never waking him. He had taken to keeping a sleeping bag and pillow under his bed for her on such occasions. He never wondered why she did it. He just knew that she did. Sometimes he would wake up and she would be there sleeping on his floor and sometimes she wasn't. As they got older she visited in the night less and less till it just seemed to stop entirely. The two had then gone off to study in London where they had their own flats but spent almost every day with one another. They had a break in their studies and were visiting their families. Mrs. Holmes had even managed to guilt Mycroft enough into coming home too to see his little brother and Sarah who had become like family to them over the years. Mycroft had asked her out to dinner one evening which was not strange. They would get a late dinner and have a lively debate. That was their usual activity together. The pair would pick a topic or a current event and just debate counter points back and forth. She could not do this with Sherlock. He never seemed to have a point to argue, he would just state he was right and that was it. She and Mycroft could talk of music, theatre, poetry, books, and art with one another for hours. She enjoyed just speaking with him and him her. She had grown into a well educated clever woman. She was more than adequate, she was suitable Mycroft thought. The two had never talked of their personal feelings about anything with one another. That was one of the reasons she was so surprised when he had suddenly started speaking about adult hood and leaving childish things behind during this particular meal. He spoken about understanding the roles one has to play in order to achieve ones goals. Certain societal norms were expected of you. "That is why I think the two of us should come to some sort of an arrangement. We are young and there is no reason to rush but when the time comes we could be wed. My family is obviously fond of you. Perhaps your approval of me would even soften Sherlock's heart towards myself and imagine the two of you related. I think he would be thrilled to share our last name with you" Shock, she had had never expected anyone in her life to propose to her. She was even more taken aback by the person asking. For her there were no flowers, there was no ring, no declarations, just a business proposition. There was at least that to be thankful for. "No thank you Mycroft" was all she said before simply standing up and walking away from him. She did not think about what she was doing. It wasn't until she was under that familiar tree that she even realized where her legs had taken her just by memory. She was too old to be doing this. To be finding comfort in someone else's home. The family she was visiting was not hers by blood. She had been adopted when she was seven. They had been good to her and treated her as if she was their own child and she would forever be thankful for their kindness. They were simple people though and ill equipped to deal with a girl like Sarah. She was bright, inquisitive, and like Sherlock she could deduce you to nothing in mere moments. That was never her game though. She was a planner. She could devise elaborate schemes and scenarios to have the exact outcome she wanted, the outcome that best suited her needs. She was a master manipulator. She never used that skill on the Holmes family she respected them all too much. She also doubted that she could. So as a child she had taken into breaking into their home at night. Mrs. Holmes knew she was doing this but never stopped it or said anything to her and Sherlock. Mrs. Holmes could see and sense the sadness in this little girl. She had been in and out of foster homes till she was adopted by the Harris family. She wasn't ill behaved she was just a somber and off putting child. She was difficult in the sense that she was too smart for her own good which made her harder to manage. But the Harris' were patient people who were older than average parents of children her age when they decided to make her a legal member of their family. At the urging of her case worker and several mental health experts they advised the Harris' to try and find a school that would be better suited for her needs and skills. That is where she met Sherlock and eventually Mycroft, a school for exceptionally gifted children. The parents of these special children thought it would be good to try and socialize them with others like themselves. Sarah had no interest in other children nor did Sherlock till they met one another. She was a quiet child and when not reading you could often find her just sitting in her room thinking. Her parents would have to remind her to eat, turn a light on, or even go to the bathroom. This behavior still lingered and to this day she often would come out of her trance like state unaware how long she had been immobile or how many days had passed. As an adult she came to realize it was this more than anything else that really upset her foster parents. How could a child be so still, say so little, know so much, and be so aware? She knew now that she had never really been a child. She didn't have parents and no one ever taught her how to simply play and imagine. Sherlock did though; Sherlock changed her as much as she changed him. So she would sleep on his bedroom floor, the floor of the Holmes residence where she felt accepted, understood, and whole. Neither of them were children anymore when Mycroft had made his proposal. Sarah and Sherlock had become young adults. They had been teased over the years for being so close and of opposite genders. Most people assumed that something was bound to happen or had happened romantically between the two of them already. It had not though. To even entertain that idea they would have had to think of it first. These two adults were as sexually inexperienced as when they had first met out on the school yard at ages 9 and 10. So when she climbed into his bed there was no intent there. Sherlock had been awake the second she touched his window sill. He was waiting to see what she might do next. It had been years since the strange neighbor girl first crawled through his window. If he had been a poetic man he would have been able to tell you that was the moment he knew she was more than just a friend, she was a kindred spirit and it endeared her to him forever. Neither of them knew how lonely they had been until they had met the other. He had never asked why she slept on his bedroom floor because he was afraid it would embarrass her and she might stop. He waited breathing steadily to simulate sleep as she removed her shoes and coat. She was refusing to let herself think. For the first time in her life she just didn't want to think. It was warm in the Holmes house and she was flustered from the evening's events. She stripped down to a black tank undershirt and her simple cotton black underwear. Sherlock himself was in just light blue linen drawstring pyjamas bottoms. Neither of them batted an eye to this either. They had gone on vacations together and seen each other in their swim wear and after many years of companionship they had become very comfortable with one another. What she did next was the first variable of that night. He had turned to face the wall before she had come through the window. He had not seen her take most of her clothing off and pull her long red hair into a pony tail off her neck. She was wearing the perfume he had gotten her this past Christmas though and he could smell her. Harris always gave him excellent presents, nothing gaudy or impractical. She gave him shaving kits, lab equipment, scalpels, even dozens of bottle of toothpaste one year. He always seemed to forget to buy it when he would finally get around to the shopping. He hadn't had to buy it since and that was going on two years ago now. He would normally choose a book for her. The year before Mycroft had gotten her a first edition of her favorite book Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. It was in French but she could read French, Latin, Spanish, Russian, Swedish, Chinese, and Japanese. She could read and speak them all fluently along with many more languages and dialects as well. Sherlock was having a small crisis about his gift for her this particular year. He could not give her a book after the last year. Mycroft's gift had annoyed him for some reason that he could not articulate. Especially when he had compared it to the paperback edition of Dante's Inferno he had bought for her from a little corner shop in London that year. So he wanted something completely different and knew that meant he was going to need help. So he asked his Mum, the only other female he knew. He would tell you that he and his mother picked it out together. Mrs. Holmes was a clever woman though; she had to be with the brood she was raising. Sherlock alone picked out that scent for Harris. The motion of lifting the thin blanket sent another wave of her perfume mixed with sweat over him. She crawled in beside him, something she had never done before. Something she didn't even realize she was doing now. He was still turned away from her but could feel her body against his bare back. Then a sound he had never heard her make before made his body stiffen and eyes widen in alarm. She was crying. Harris had never cried, not once the whole time he had ever known her. He knew she was trying to do so quietly. She was too. If he had been asleep it wouldn't have even woken him. He knew she was must have been very upset about something since she didn't even notice that she had gone from sobbing almost silently into his back to sobbing loudly and openly into his bare chest. He had turned to face her and wrapped his arms around her slight frame. Something he had never done before. He was right, she hadn't noticed. When she did however, as the unfamiliar sensation of crying was starting to ebb and she felt more herself, she immediately recoiled from him. This action hurt Sherlock. Not physically, it hurt somewhere deep down inside of himself. This shocked him as much as her realizing he was awake and he let her go instantly. They were silent for a moment looking intensely into each others eyes. She as usual was the first to look away. "Sherlock, I am sorry. I know I shouldn't have I just didn't know where else to go…" she was sitting up now her feet dangling over the side of his bed. She was regaining her composure and it was somehow disappointing to Sherlock. "I wasn't even thinking about coming here. I don't know how I even ended up…." "In my bed" Sherlock said. Now he wasn't thinking. She cut him a sideways glance and he knew what he had said to hurt her. She was already up grabbing her coat and shoes. She didn't even bother putting her clothes back on, she had already thrown them out the window onto the ground where she would dress in the dark after she climbed down the tree. "Don't, come on now it was a joke." He was standing now and mentally preparing to do anything to stop her from leaving. "It wasn't funny Sherlock." She hadn't wanted to leave. She wanted to stay there and listen to his steady constant breathing as he slept. Like she used to when they had been children. "Tell me what is wrong then? We have never been known to keep secrets from one another; it would be pointless to try." These two had been keeping secrets from one another and even from themselves since they had first met. "I don't know why it has gotten me into such a state. It's stupid. After all he didn't really propose he just mentioned it as a possible option for our, my future." Normally Sherlock would have been steps ahead of what anyone in the conversation was saying. Someone had proposed to her? Who did she know that would be in a position to even ask her that? What had she been doing? Who was she with? Was there a life of hers he did not know about? He remembered being slightly annoyed that she had chosen to have a late dinner with his brother that evening instead of eating with him. She had cracked a smile and even asked if he was jealous when he pouted about it as they were getting ready to leave. After all they lived a stones throw from each other in the city and had almost every meal together when they both remembered to eat. So she wanted different company and Mycroft had offered. She had options this evening, eat in with Sherlock or go out with Mycroft. "Mentioned it as a possible option…." Harris had said His head swam. When he was in control again he realized he was sitting on the bed. His arms were tense his fingers were digging into the edge. He vaguely heard her voice in the distance ask him "What's wrong?" What was wrong was that his whole world was wrong. Everything he thought he had known had come crashing down. If he had told her that she would have understood. It was how she felt when Mycroft had suggested they be married one day. For people who were aware of everything and everyone else around them they were completely unaware of their own feelings. Mycroft's little idea had made them think about and face something they had never wanted to acknowledge before. They loved one another. They had both always taken it for granted, that they were alone in their little world. They could have gone on like that forever and would have been content, never saying it never expressing it more than by simply being in each others lives. They had been above all that custom and tradition. They had focused on everything but personal matters because as they realized now it had all been settled in their minds. From that first day in the school yard till this moment they had been in a relationship and never even knew it. The scariest part was that it felt natural. He loving her, and her loving him came as easy to them as breathing. None of this was said between the two of them. But knowledge learned cannot be unlearned. Especially not for these two particular people. A chill in the air crept between them. She had gone quiet as did he. They were Adam and Eve, knowledge and self awareness had just cast them out of the garden. That was the moment they left childhood behind completely. There had always been a bit of sibling rivalry between him and Mycroft. The two had, on more the one occasion, when they were younger gotten into scuffles. Sherlock was larger and stronger then Mycroft so he could over power him easily enough once, and if, he could get his hands on him. Mycroft was a smart and cunning fighter and could hold his own rather well if needed. They had not had a physical fight in years. Sherlock was thinking of changing that now that Mycroft was trying to come between them. He had been thinking of at least four different ways to break his brothers' arm when he heard her voice. It sounded different to him now, clearer, sweeter, and calming. "Sherlock… Sherlock… you've resolved to do something. I hope it isn't to harm him in anyway. I could not bear it Sherlock." She could not bear it? She had concern for him, concern for Mycroft. "You are all special to me." He did not want to hear this. He hated every moment of this. He felt there was no use for jealousy in the world so he had never felt any himself or at least realized that was what he was feeling. His rivalry with his brother was due more to their competitive nature. He was jealous now though, jealous that he was not the only person in her heart like she was for him. He cared for his family well enough. He was thankful for all they had given him through heredity and their support. He had not chosen them though. He had chosen her, and he thought she had chosen him. He doubted it now. He had never had a need or felt these emotions before and he could feel it all piling up inside himself. He was trying to keep his composure. Not many people would have been able to notice the slight changes in his facial expression as he tried to wade his way through unfamiliar waters in his own mind and heart. She could see it though. He was hurt by something, something she had said or done. She almost reached out to him then stopped. They barely ever touched. She had been so distraught before she didn't even realize he had held her. He had held her when she cried and she had recoiled at his touch. That was her instinct. "Have I upset you?" she asked so firm and calmly that it shook Sherlock back into the moment. That was a loaded question. She had not meant to but yes, she had hurt him. He had seen her in pain and acted while she had hesitated. She stood very still slightly out of his eye sight and in the shadows of his darkened room. "Sherlock?" she stepped towards him slowly. When he finally raised his head she was standing there in front of him. Her hair had become tangled when she pulled away from him. He had not seen her let it down again. She had always kept her hair very long. It fell past her shoulders and down her back ending finally at her waist. She often wore it up so he never fully understood why she had never just gone and cut it all off. That moment looking at her he thought it so beautiful of course she could never stand to part with even a single strand of it. The moon was bright outside his window. Her ghost white skin was illuminated in its light. She looked like she had been carved from alabaster stone and he found himself suddenly wondering if he reached out and touched her skin would it feel smooth like river rocks? She was short enough and he was tall enough that their faces nearly met though she was standing and he was sitting. If he could have seen himself he would have seen the same moon, the same light, playing its same tricks with his skin. His clear vivid eyes glowed hauntingly seeming to soak up every bit of light in the room. His raven coloured loose curls shined almost blue in the moon glow. He had grown into a handsome young man and her into a beautiful young woman. With this new knowledge, these new eyes they looked at one another and saw each other truly for the first time. Suddenly both were keenly aware they were almost completely naked. He observed where her body curved and his did not while she took in how broad his chest had become. They were both blushing and for a second each damned themselves for being so pale there was no way to hide it. Modesty had never been an issue between them till now. She would not cover herself and neither would he. That would confirm what they were both thinking. "Sarah…" he said sadly. She had not heard him say her name in over a decade. It broke her heart to hear him say it now. "No please don't Sherlock. Not tonight, not after Mycroft. Don't spoil what is left." It had all changed when he said her name though. "Do you want him Sarah? Do you want to marry him?" he could think calmly and clearly if he didn't look at her. "I had never given it any consideration before. I've never given much thought to matters of the heart." "I cannot believe that." He was flat. "Why? Because I am a girl? We fill our heads with silly little things like gowns, and flower arrangements. You know me Sherlock." She had decided to sit next to him. She was aware he was looking everywhere but at her. "Why do you think I was so shocked? The closest I have even come to a kiss is with your mum same as you" she joked hoping to bring back some of their ease with one another. "How about you then Mr. Holmes? Ever thought about finding yourself a misses?" "I have seen the books you read. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, looses girl." He was avoiding the question and she would let him for now. She after all had avoided his direct question as well. "You may have seen the books I read but you had never read them. Sherlock if I refused to read books with any sort of romantic subplot I would be stuck reading only instruction manuals and car magazines". She nudged his shoulder with her own playfully. "It isn't my fault that love seems to be a reoccurring theme I didn't write it. But are you surprised? Isn't love and loss all part of the human experience? Don't we all have that in common?" "No" they said in unison now both smiling. "There we go a laugh. Sherlock no matter what happens I will always be here for you." He still could not bring his eyes to meet hers. So he did not see as she took his hand with such a gentle touch he thought it was air coming from the still open window. He had been right, smooth like a river rock "You were the first person I ever met who understood me, accepted me. The first person who made me feel like I wasn't strange and incomplete. I was such a lonely little girl…" her voice had cracked. He decided instantly that the worst sound in the world was her crying and he would never be the reason she made that sound again. He looked at her then. "I was such a lonely little girl…" she continued regaining her composure, "and you gave me a family. I was lucky to have been adopted by Emily and Franklin Harris. They are fine honest hard working people but they are not my people Sherlock. You, your family, this was the kind of family I was meant to grow up in. You are my people. You chose me, and I chose you Sherlock. Whatever that means we chose one another a long time ago." He was staring directly into her eyes now. When they were children he thought they looked like snake skin. Here now in the moonlight he could seem them clearer, intense, powerful, and hypnotic like churning waters on the night sea during a violent storm. "Mycroft is a good man Sherlock. He meant nothing by it. He is as blind to love as we are. He thought it was just a smart idea, a way to get ahead in politics. It never hurts to be part of a power couple" or to have a smart, clever, articulate, beautiful young woman on your arm. When people envied you it gave you power. Sarah on his arm would give him power Sherlock thought. Something about this stirred the anger in him again. He had a small suspicion that his brother may have wanted more than just a peer and equal. The idea of someone else's hands on her was too much for him to bear he had to turn away from her again. Someone else's he had thought. That implied that he had wanted to touch her first which made him question who he thought he had been. He let go of her hand and instantly regretted doing so. She accepted that the moment had passed. She didn't think staying any longer would make anything better. She stood up and was about to duck out his window when she heard him say in the smallest voice this man could make "Please don't go. I had always liked when you slept here" He hadn't known how much he did till that night. He was also worried that if he let her out of his sight this evening for even just a moment she would slip away and be gone from him forever. "No Sherlock." It wasn't enough this time for her to stay. He would have to say something to make her want to stay. She had just spoken so sweetly to him and so out of her character. She had shown her vulnerability and was feeling shame for it now. They were both somehow the most prideful and stubborn people that had each met. "If you were to marry him Sarah I would not hate you. You would be my family officially then. I cannot think of any woman or person for that matter on this earth that I would be more happy and pleased to share a last name with. I would not hate you but I would not be able to smile through your nuptials. I would not be able to be Uncle Sherlock to your children. If those are things you want Sarah he can give them to you. I can't. I can never express to you how much I wish I could but I can't. So I will not begrudge you your happiness if this is what will indeed make you happy. It is your choice Sarah and I know how unfair this is" "You're speaking as if I would marry him" "You should Sarah. Mycroft loves you. I think I may have always known and just ignored it. Perhaps if I had addressed it earlier we wouldn't be here now, or maybe it would have all happened sooner." "I don't love him." I love you. That would have been the whole statement if she had not been too terrified to say it out loud. "I know" and he would have finished with I love you too. He was standing now. She was half his size easily. She looked so small to him suddenly, so fragile. "I know but you could grow to love him. Or you could just simply tolerate him. He could give you a good life." "I don't want that life Sherlock. I told you already I chose my path a long time ago and I know full well what that means." "I want you to have that life. Even if I am too much of a coward to give it to you myself" He pitied himself and it angered her. "Listen to me William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I will decide what life I shall live for myself and by myself. Sherlock the way you feel I feel. We are both far too childish and frightened right now to just say it but Sherlock we both feel it. Tonight opened up a veritable Pandora's Box on our world. Ignorance is bliss but we are no longer ignorant. We feel it, but we don't have to fear it. What have we always said" she was only centimeters from him now and had grown in size thanks to the ferocity with which she spoke. She placed her hand on his heart and his on hers. "This is your heart. And you should never let it rule your head!" She felt it then. She felt his heart skip at her touch and her words. His body had betrayed him. For a brief moment he let his hand stay where her heart was beating steadily under it and he felt disappointed. "I think that is sound advice still. Yes Sherlock you are my heart and the fact I just felt yours falter at my touch I know I am yours. But your heart doesn't rule your head and neither will mine." She was reassuring him that nothing had changed. They were still Sherlock and Harris playing pirates, making up scenarios together where Mycroft gets horribly maimed or worse, playing the cello and violin together for practice and fun, sitting in a room quietly with one another just thinking, or reading books. He curled around some sort of text book and epic novels of tragedy, love, loss, and redemption sprawled across her lap. They were still completely their own person and she, like him, didn't want that to change. He was still doubtful but it was true, you don't have to be afraid. Not when there is someone right next to you just as afraid, just as alone, just as hopeless and lost. So he took her hands into his. Just one of his could have covered both of hers. She was his heart she was right. This petite, clever, cunning, spit fire of a woman with her ginger and honey coloured hair, stormy green eyes, and milk coloured skin was his heart in human form. Just like this tall, dark, domineering, pale, impossible man, with his black curls and eyes the colour of wheat and blue skies was hers. If either of them could believe in things like fate or destiny they would have been that for each other. "You are right. And I am sorry" was all he said before he leaned into her for their first kiss.


End file.
